


Top of Camp Credenhill

by RawNoodlewKetchupandPickledfFries



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Bullying, Cabins, Cussing, Denial of Feelings, Drinking, Dysfunctional Family, Father Figures, Fluff and Angst, Illegal Activities, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Loss of Parent(s), Loss of Virginity, M/M, Military Academy, Military Backstory, Military Homophobia, Military Training, Military Uniforms, Name-Calling, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Protective Parents, Sexual Confusion, Task Force 141, Training Camp, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:48:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27450739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RawNoodlewKetchupandPickledfFries/pseuds/RawNoodlewKetchupandPickledfFries
Summary: John Mactavish was never an outstanding student, a son to br proud of, or a person out of the ordinary his whole life. His overbearing father told him he wasn't enough, and John knew that.When his father passes away, Mactavish embraces the one thing he left behind for his only child; his will for John to follow in his steps and make something of himself.When he leaves Scotland and enrolls in a training camp for Task Force 141 in England after basic training, he has no idea what he's in for.And neither does Riley.(Based in an AU where no one has gained their call signs yet, Price is the father for everyone, MacMillan is like the wise grandfather, Soap is that cocky teenager you want to fucking fling off a truck, Ghost is kind of depressed.)I do not own CoD.
Relationships: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley, Simon "Ghost" Riley/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 23





	1. Fucking New Guys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and John "meet" on the bus. First impressions, except John talks more to a bum on the street than with Simon, who just wants a fucking nap.

Simon Riley. 

He was never a person out of the crowd. He moved with it, like the flow of a raging river. It was what he always felt beneath the skin that drew him apart, like the swirling undercurrents against the bottom, suppressed. 

Never raised his hand when he had the answer. 

Never spoke his mind. 

Never stepped out of his place. 

It was when Simon was a young boy that his father taught him so. Bringing reptiles home and teasing him with them. It was beyond that, however silly it was, Riley was horrified of snakes, and often would be forced to kiss the cold blooded creatures. Then, at night, after his drunken father finally left him alone and went instead to bombard his mother, his older brother would come into his room at night. 

He wore a balaclava with a skeleton's pale face imprinted on the thin cloth, the sight looming in Riley's nightmares years after the many times his brother would scare him as a boy. As Riley grew into a man, or atleast out of his childhood, the fear faded, but the memories stayed. In his pocket was that very same balaclava now, nabbed this morning before he left. Then his brother went off to the military; and as much as Simon hated him for what he had done to him, the man was his idol. His big brother. Simon stepped out the door to his broken home, gently closing it behind him as the uncovered skin of his wrists and neck were kissed by the cool night air. He trotted down the steps, his green duffle bag rustling as things shifted about inside of it. 

So naturally, as Simon's bigger brother went to serve, he wanted to, too. Only his parents disagreed with another child going into battle. Simon still lived with his parents; he couldn't afford a flat, and couldn't keep a job at his rambunctious age. He was stuck with them. 

He had decided weeks prior to this moment that he was leaving. He had already gone into basic training against their will, and per the SAS's request, to attend the training camp as a recruit. Learning that he was wanted by some place? For work? For a job? It meant everything to Simon. His life was just beginning, finally. He wasn't going to let his overbearing, abusive father and sheep of a mother get in the way now. 

Simon glanced over his shoulder at the place he had called home most of his life. A run down, shitty flat squat middle of Manchester, where the gangs and slang ran thick. He breathed in the musty city air through his lungs, letting it purify him before tugging up the hood to his gray sweatshirt.

The sun peeked out behind him through the buildings. He had made sure to leave early, crack of dawn. Nobody would know he was missing until breakfast, and they couldn't do anything about him once he was signed into the camp. The bus to pick him up would be arriving soon. From there it'd be a few hour drive until they reached the camp, picking up other recruits along the way, according to whoever was closest. 

Simon approached the bus station, which was simply a rinky dink glass box with a shitty bench and worn map pinned to one of the walls. He stepped inside, taking a seat. It'd be about an hour until the bus arrived; so Riley pulled his hood down as far as he could, leaning so that his duffle bag pressed against the glass wall, using it for makeshift comfort. 

He reached into his pocket, pulling out his shades and the skull balaclava. He flipped his hood down, tugging on the mask, and then the shades. Riley thought it smart, to conceal his physical appearance. That, and it immediately brought him some kind of... Satisfaction, to be unseen like that. Just a skull mask and shades. 

He crossed his arms over his chest, closing his baby blue eyes under the sunglasses, slowly coaxing himself into sleep, the city sounds surprisingly quiet this morning. 

-  
LATER.  
\- 

A roaring engine broke Riley from his sleep with a start, followed by the squeal of pressurized brakes. He straightened immediately, standing and pulling himself togethr drowsily. He stepped out from the shelter, lifting his gaze to the vehicle. It was a dark green; with a stripe of yellow down the sides. Nothing special.

The doors creaked open, an older looking man at the wheel of the bus, who met Riley's hidden eyes with his own brown ones, lifting an eyebrow, "Simon Riley..?". 

"Yeh," He responded, stepping into the bus as the driver nodded, jutting a thumb over his shoulder to the rows of the mostly empty seats behind him without another word. 

Riley watched the man as he passed, gripping onto the first seat corner on his left as he made his way up the steps. He looked around briefly, then settled in an empty seat halfway down the Isle, avoiding two chatty looking blokes at the front and back. He didn't want to talk. He wanted a fuckin' nap. 

Simon threw his bag up into the travel rafters of the bus, knowing the drill. He then took a seat at the place below it, folding his arms and resuming the same position as he did at the bus station, leaning against the cold window. He could hardly keep his eyes open, relief flooding over him as he once again fell asleep. 

-  
LATER.  
-

MacTavish was about as mature as a boy with candy and a gun. He was loud; and at times could be dimwitted or annoying during his spastic clowning moments. However, he had a certain overblown charm; the man was hilarious, handsome, and his accent on occasion was hypnotic to the women. 

John waved a hand around in the air, sat at the edge of his bench in the little bus shelter, talking to an elderly homeless man who'd been having a nap before John has barged in, carrying two massive bags on his broad shoulders. He had then gone and made small talk with the older man, who too was a Scot. They had talked about sports, drinks, which then led them to the current topic at hand. Shenanigans. 

One hand on his knee, John grinned, shaking his head, "Bloke was as rubbered as a fackin' bicycle wheel! Polis pulls up 'n asks, "Yer lookin' aff yer heid there, mate, you had a dram?"." John queried towards himself, taking a breath before continuing, the older man giving small chuckles at the little tale. 

""Naw naw," says mi mate, turns, looks over at me, grins, 'n says all noice an' loud, "I'M STOCIOUS!"" John gave a laugh as the other man doubled over, howling his lungs out in laughter, rocking around on his bench as he coughed, voice stained by cigarettes. 

"Aye, you're a right funny bastard," The other managed, wiping his teared up eyes on his sleeve, beaming at John's ridiculous story of how him and his mates stole a mattress from a dumpster and sent his drunk friend out to bait the police so they could throw the thing down a hill and escape like it was a raft. 

John shook his head, rubbing at the back of his neck, opening his mouth to respond when he heard an engine roaring off in the distance. He closed his mouth, his grin dropping and then reappearing. Bus was finally here. 

"Yer ride, then?" Asked the man. 

John nodded as he stood, taking the other man's hand in a firm handshake, "Yeh. I'll see ya 'round mate, back in Scotland maybe?" He joked, giving a massive grin. 

"You're knackered! Now git the fack out my bus station, yer taking up all mi heatin'!" He returned sarcastically, giving John a final nod as the soldier made his way to the approaching bus. 

John hopped his two bags further up on his back, standing tall as the bus screeched to a stop, the door pausing infront of him perfectly as the doors squeaked open. John stepped up into the bus, face to face with an older man at the driver's seat, who lifted an eyebrow at John's questionable haircut. 

"John MacTavish? Not quiet the spittin' image." Man spoke with a British accent. 

"Aye. Wouldn't dream of it, mate." He responded, the driver failing to hide a smile at the humerous retort.

"Take a seat, then."

John stepped up into the Isle, near having to fuckin' duck the place was so cramped. It was crowded, too. It looked most of the seats were piled high with occupants, throwing shit, being obnoxious and loud. Not that John didn't mind it; it looked like his kind of zoo, now just to find an empty spot...

He ended up walking halfway down the bus when he spotted one; the emergency exit spot, where was a man partly curled up in the seat against the smaller window, hood pulled up, probably havin' a lil sleep. John took a seat beside him, hoping he wouldn't mind, because there wasn't any other open seats anyway. 

The bus continued down the road as John settled, tan cargo pants pressing up against the seat infront of him, as he was rather tall, and thus, the seating looked rather awkward for an idiot that size. 

The man beside him stirred, instantly capturing MacTavish's attention as he lifted his face to almost glare at John. Well, John assumed it was a glare. He couldn't tell because the man's face was concealed via balaclava and sunglasses. It was unnervingly awkward for a moment as the smaller man just scoffed before turning away, deciding to ignore the Scot's heavy presence.

John shrugged it off, pressing his spine to the cold leather backing of his seat, staring off into space as the bus continued down the street, off to their new home for the next few weeks.

Not a bad start, he hadn't gotten punched yet. 

Not a bad start at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, will be updating soon! So come back in a few days, tucker in, and enjoy. I had to look up Scottish slang for this. It's pretty hilarious on it's own. Next chapter we'll get some actual meetings n stuff.


	2. Captain John Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes some acquaintances.

(if you haven't already, go back and read the first chapter, I updated it into the full shit, so if you just skipped ahead to this, go bAcK)

John shifted his things in his lap as the bus continued down the road, glancing away from the stranger. The rafters, as well as the seats, looked packed; he heard a ruckus in the back, and looked over to find things falling on a bloke. He grinned. 

The bus itself was incredibly cramped; things shoved into the Isle, people chattering amongst themselves, an occasional barking laugh or an object being thrown overhead. It was John's kind of party, was all he knew. Save for being sat uncomfortably close to someone who didn't seem to fancy his presence so much, the wanker hadn't even spoken a word to John and probably hated him already. 

John returned his gaze to the stranger beside him, staring for a moment too long as he thought.

"Stop looking at me mate or I'll lend you my camera, yeah?"

John blinked at the retort with a start, glancing around to see if anyone else has noticed his little slipup. Maybe someone across from them. But, oh joy, he had gotten his new best mate to talk. John made a silent vow to himself make this poor sod his new bestie, weather he liked it or not. The Scotsman perked up noticeably, much to the mysterious stranger's dread. 

"Naw, I'll mind that face without a camera, mate." He returned sarcastically after his short recon, his Scottish accent now apparent to his seating partner, who sat up completely and faced John as the larger man mocked him. 

"Where's you kilt, then, soap-dodger?" The Brit changed the subject, what looked like a smile forming under the balaclava now that he had the upper ground again, crossing his arms over his broad chest, gloved hands hidden. He had caught John's accent. Fine. 

Two could play that game. 

"Left it at yer maw's house, ya bloody British parrot sniffer!" John grinned wildly at his comeback, which made absolutely no sense, and that was the beauty of it. 

"You smell like your dog's arse." 

"Spill the tea, Brit." 

"Wanker." 

"Numpty." 

The other man fell silent for a moment, his hidden gaze no doubt looking unamused as all hell, and was staring at John, who was still grinning like a complete doof. He shifted himself, like he was assessing John, sizing him up in a single glance before his voice became serious, seeming to have made up his mind, "Simon Riley. Sniper.". 

John stuck out his callused hand for a handshake, giving a firm jot as Simon accepted it, "John MacTavish. Demolitions. No call sign?". He asked casually, his demeanor copying Simon's, though he was sarcastic, as most Scots were. 

He had heard that the Task Force was infamous for it's call signs, and that upon entering the premises, you had better have one or your Captain would be giving you one. He had even heard a tale of a poor bloke getting walked in on by his Captain while beating under his sheets. He was known as Wanker for the rest of his short days. 

"Call you Stank," Put up Simon in his flat, smooth British accent, "Stank Arse MacTavish.". 

"Naw, Glorious MacTavish." 

"Soap." 

"What?" 

"Soap." Riley Shrugged. 

John squinted at the man like he had a second head, "Soap?". 

"Soap-dodger. Nice change of pace. Also, soap's got an explosive component. Said you were in demolitions?" He explained shortly, forearms resting on his knees. Something about that looked absolutely badass to Soap; he couldn't quiet put his finger on it. 

"No. Thas nawt gonna stick," Mumbled John, shaking his head. "Dumb name.". 

"Whatever you say, Soap." Simon teased cooly, leaning back in his seat as the bus bumped along a road, crossing his arms. 

"What's with the balaclava, then?" He ignored the use of the name, changing the subject. John questioned blatantly, regretting it when he saw Simon stiffen. 

"From an old friend." Simon said cautiously, his voice dropping an octave.

"Ah. Whale, how about we call ya Bones?" He lifted a finger gesturing to his own face. The balaclava had a skull on it. Fitting. 

Riley definitely looked annoyed under his shades as he asked skeptically, his voice judgemental, "Bones?". 

Soap blinked like the idiot he was, opening his mouth to spew some other dumb suggestion when another voice piped up to their side, "How 'bout Ghost?". 

Both John and Simon looked over to the opposing seat, where sat a lean man in the outer lane, and a more heavily built darker skinned man by the window, who also appeared to have been listening in on the conversation. 

The gazes went back over to Riley, who sat motionless without a word.

The stranger hesitated for a moment before continuing, "Gary Sanderson. Call me Roach." He had a young voice. Fresh out of basic like the rest of them. And American, by the sounds of it. He had dark blonde hair, a fair face, and was wearing cargo pants and a sweatshirt like Riley. He stuck out his hand for Soap to shake; Riley didn't feel like exchanging handshakes, so he didn't.

"Nice mohawk. Folks call me Worm," Spoke the other, who seemed to have a Texan accent, also from America, John recognized. 

"Thanks mate... So, ya eat dirt?" Asked John with a massive cheeky grin, his accent painfully obvious.

Roach chuckled, doubling over to hide his sneer, a few others catching onto the conversation and man giggling.

Worm kind of frowned, blinking his bold brown eyes in disappointment. 

Simon kinda of watched the exchange, and although he tried hiding it, John spotted a grin under the skeleton balaclava as he shook his head.

"You gents 'cross the big blue?" John asked casually, leaning back so that he slouched in his seat, Simon putting his back against the window to engage in the conversation, or atleast, to watch it. 

"Yeah. Worm here came from Georgia. I'm from Washington, North, by the Canadian border." Roach assumed the same position as Soap while Worm bent over, forearms resting on his thighs. 

Soap looked confused for a second, furrowing his dark brown eyebrows together as he thought. He glanced over at Riley, who stared back in return. Soap looked back over at the other two, skepticall, "But... Georgia isn't 'en America...?".

Riley BURST out into hysterical laughing, pounding his fist against the seat as he howled, much to Soap's displeasure and confusion. Roach and Worm followed immediately, Roach bucking in his seat and near falling on the fucking floor in fits of giggling while Worm threw his head back and thrashed about madly, making the whole bus turn their heads at the banter. Soap just sat there, utterly confused. The few rows around him also erupted into giggling, most having ceased chattering to listen to the few men talk.

"Soap, you fackin' idiot, they've got a Georgia in America too, mate..." Simon finally explained after catching his breath, rubbing his face with a gloved hand.

John's face near turned a shade of red from embarrassment. He had forgotten all about that. Yes, America copyin' shit. Of course. Roach sat himself upright, holding his stomach as he wiped a tear from his eye. 

"Definitely Scottish." Commented Worm, giving a few more laughs before collecting himself into content silence and a beam.

A click, followed by radio sounding static was heard before the bus driver spoke into a mic up front.

"Gather all your belongings and get the fuck off mi bus," He muttered, putting the radio back down with another click. 

John hadn't realized how much time had passed, but they had droven all the way to the camp already, which was located in a pine forest some thirty miles from the nearest gas station. Not like anyone had rights to leave anymore, anyway.

The bus drove past a checkpoint, which opened up upon spotting the authorized dark green vehicle. The road turned to dirt, kicking it up as it went, making Soap suddenly aware of how dry and hot it had become. It must have been around noon by now; he'd gotten on the bus a wee while ago. 

The surrounding area had pines and ferns, usual woodland shite. The narrow road weaved and turned this way and that for a while as people began to grow quiet in anticipation, instead turning to look out the windows as view of the campus came into sight. 

It didn't look run down; it had some hangars off to the left, a heli pad near some industrial, clean looking building that looked plenty like a modified church to the right. Everything was dirt. Up an incline infront of the main building that was probably the cafeteria and showers were cabins, each dotted out, some logs closing off patches of trees and ferns in the center of the dirt hill. It wasn't steep, no, just looked like it went on for fucking ever. 

The bus came to a sudden stop beside the main compound, the breaks giving a wheeze as more dry dust floated up into the air. 

Now, everyone was dead silent as the doors opened, and despite the driver's very clear instructions, nobody moved. 

Some heavy, quick boots were heard up the steps of the bus, a man in a tactical vest, fully geared and weaponized, mind you, and wearing a camo booney hat. The man also had a well distinguished mustache that somehow acted as a beard at the same time. On his face was a disgusted scowl. 

"GET THE FUCK! OFF! MY! BUS!" He roared after folding his hands behind his back, standing almost at attention. 

The bus exploded into movement as the older man made his way down the isle, barking orders at clumsy or slow men, who scrambled to gather their things and escape. 

Soap quickly grabbed both of his bags, hauling them onto his back as the furious man marched down the isle his way. John watched as he stalked past to hollar at the people behind him, making a quick dash for the bus exit, glancing back to see Riley grabbing his shit. 

Worm and Roach followed closely after Soap, boots meeting the pale, tan dirt. More men, likely their new Captains, proceeded to yell at them to drop their shit in a pile and assemble into a line and assume attention or God help their sorry asses.

Soap puffed up his broad chest, dog tags glinting in the sunlight as the man on the bus ushered the last stragglers out; Simon was a few people to his left. He stood feet shoulder width apart, arms folded behind his back, as did the other recruits. Things fell silent as the Captain from the bus's boots hit the dirt, pacing across the line with his fists clenched, like he might sock somebody across the jaw if they looked at him wrong. What a hard ass. 

"Welcome to Camp Creden. We'll check yer shit and sort you with yer Captains, orientation in an hour, don't be late or you'll be on my list, are. We. Clear?" The man stopped at the end of the line. Soap picked up the remnants of a Scottish accent, and couldn't help the small cheeky grin that snuck onto his lips. 

"Yes, Sir." Responded the group as a whole, and was immediately met with a hard stare from the Captain, who snapped his gaze down the line like a whip. 

"FNGs, meet your Captains." He growled out, gesturing to four men assembled behind him casually, all of which looking older and fit for the job of babysitting the recruits. They snorted, one crossing his arms over his chest as he eyed up the group.

Bloke. 

"Yes Sir!" The line of men jeered loudly, much to Captain Booney Hat's pleasure. 

"I am Captain Price," He said, in a much calmer, lower voice, "These other men are Captain Macmillan, Archer, Scarecrow, and Rocket. You will treat them as you would me."

Captain Price knew he didn't have to evaluate on that, and the fact that he didn't bother to try and scare the men no doubt had some shitting themselves. He wasn't even trying.

The man in question pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a silver zippo lighter, tapping off the ash before taking a drag, "Before you're assigned, to make sure none of you try sneaking any contraband in, we'll be going through your luggage," He blew out a plume of smoke, pausing. "This is your chance to come clean and surrender anything like knives, guns, drugs, and a cheeky picture of your boyfriends.".

Macmillan chuckled behind him gruffly.

The man to his right shifted; he recognized him from the seat diagonal to him on the bus. He looked incredibly uncomfortable. Soap just basked in the moment of knowing he had been smart enough to not bring any weapons or porn on campus, unlike this poor sod.

Captain Price walked over to the pile of bags with a predatory prowl in his steps.

Good lord have mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yyyaaayyyy I love doing dialogue. We're in for a long one, boys. Buckle up.
> 
> So, I feel like to understand the origin of the callsign Soap for this, you need some background info. In Manchester, where Simon is from, you call Scots from Scotland soap-dodger because they're infamous for... Well, dodging soap, and smelling bad. Not our Soap though, he's just a heart throb. :)
> 
> Roach is also American in this story because why the fuck not, so is Worm, I needed Captains and nobody knows jack shit about Rocket, Archer or Scarecrow so I was like
> 
> hm improv time you're all Lieutenants or captains and you're all older
> 
> Yes, I'm aware that I've seriously bent the timeline so that they're all in SAS training together. That's the point ya nini they're all young and dumb and by the way yes Soap and Ghost are doing slow burn shit they're friends first calm down ok? Ok, you stick around and Soap will drop panties and probably get caught by Price it'll be hilarious
> 
> I hope you enjoyed. :)
> 
> <3


	3. Hilarity and Humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Price meets his new men. Hilarity and humiliation ensues.

Captain John Price sipped tea from his shitty military grade ceramic mug before placing it back down on his shiny, scratched, cluttered wooden desk. 

He had only a few weeks to whip these men into obedient, mindful, agile, and powerful machines before Laswell was up his ass about it. He needed this done. 

He scratched at his chin through a glove, rummaging around the papers on his desk with his newly freed hand, blue eyes observant and focused. Only yesterday had he been issued recruits; and as the most powerful figure of authority and command- save for Captain Macmillan, Price wouldn't dare command him about - he was also issued the task of orientation and splitting them into barracks. 

Price had walked over to the daunting pile of luggage at the leftmost side of the lineup, grabbing the first bag on the top to avoid making more bags get scuffed with the fine powder that was the dirt here. He was a Captain, but he wasn't a dickhead.

Glancing up at the group, he managed an iconic, almost grim smirk, his impressive mustache sinching with the movement. He tugged open the tan duffle via cheap black plastic zipper, catching the gaze of a nervous young man who's face was paling. 

Captain Price continued. He had been given the chance to quietly surrender. He ducked his head, looking away from the recruit and into the bag, and instantly, shit you not, very first thing on the top was a porn magazine. Price went no further, clutching the bag in one hand and peeking at the name tag on the zipper. 

"Mike Cleaver... Good taste." Price locked his gaze on the nervous looking cadet, who was now sweating bullets. He dropped the still open bag on the pile, not giving many shits at what was exposed. 

Price made his way over to the man, who was standing beside a rather brick of a soldier who was grinning wildly at the situation. He also had an odd appearance. A mohawk. He'd get to that later. 

"Right. You're Mike, then? Bring a little magazine for the boys?" Price crossed his arms over his chest, towering over the stockier man, invading his space with a lean as he spoke. "What's your callsign, private?".

"I ain't got one, sir..." He fumbled on his words, his adam's apple slowly moving as he swallowed, lifting his gaze to meet his stern Captain's. 

Price chuckled to himself, a low, husky sound that was rasped from packs of cigarettes. He nodded, glancing around as he spoke again, "Meat. Your name's Meat.". 

Meat looked horrified. Price himself could barely hold back a laugh, even his fellow Captains behind him chuckled.

At this the soldier beside 'Meat' broke out into a little giggle, doubling over, breaking his attention stance. Price snapped his gaze over, pacing over and sizing the tank of a man up. The larger became still; though he remained grinning, his body betraying him. 

Price stared at him for a moment until he calmed down, regaining his stature and stone face. 

"Where are you from, private Giggles?" He asked casually, he voice stoic.

"Scotland, sir." Responded the soldier. Price caught onto the strong accent, even with those two words. He himself was a scot; though his accent was washed out from years of traveling to foreign places and speaking unknown tongues.

"Callsign?"

At this the soldier stiffened, visibly resisting the urge to glance off to the side, Price noted. He frowned deeply when the smaller man beside him, who Price had just tormented, spoke up. 

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"What is it, Meat?" Price shifted his stance so that he was partly facing the soldier, who managed a vengeful grin and a small glance at the mohawked scot.

"We call him Soap."

At this, the one named Soap turned his head over to Meat with a pathetic look of distrust. 

Meat sneered. 

Price smiled to himself in that fake, condescending way before turning back to Soap, "What the hell kind of name is Soap? You drop something in the shower then? Slippery bastard on the field? Smell nice?" He interrogated mockingly, enjoying the hell out of Soap's expression, which was a mixture of terror and confusion.

"How'd a muppet like you get past selection?" Price muttered, leaning back on his heels as he glanced over his shoulder at his mates, who were trying their damnedest not to crack up at Price's name shenanigans. 

"Manchester, sir." Soap managed in a relatively calm, collected, even voice, which shocked Price, considering he had just humiliated the shit out of the man infront of his comrades. His response also explained the name; Price simply gave a nod as he chuckled quietly, turning.

"All of you go through your shit or I will. Throw away any contraband in that bin over there, pocket knives in a pile, if you've brought any, hurry the fuck up so I can split you sods off."

It wasn't, Price had decided, the worst start ever to a first day.

The rest of the day wasn't as promising.

He grasped a file with his fingertips after digging around. There was one man in that line who had caught his eyes before he had turned to go and speak to Macmillan about barracks and rooming and such. 

Simon Riley. One with the balaclava. Impressive, considering it was hot as bollocks outside, Simon seemed to be as cold and still as a stone in his mask. 

No know callsigns were listed in his file, like most of the men. Maybe he'd see about Simon's capabilities later on the training course. 

After having everyone make the walk of shame over to the bin and toss something away, Price returned to the group to announce cabins. 

"Henry, Jackson, Walters, Kavinski, Alexander, you're with Archer, get." Price jutted a thumb over his shoulder at a middle aged man, clean shaven, little bit of gray, wearing an empty vest and combat boots. He gave a nod to the group, quick handshake, and then lead them up the steady incline of the hill at a jog.

"Johnson, Schuster... Yang... Macmillan..."

It continued on like that for a while. Price naming off names to commanders. He left the best for last. 

"Rest of you lot are mine. Let's go, we're by the tracks." Price muttered the last part, then began to walk off in an almost random direction, not quite up the dusty hill, but more diagonal. The group remaining- Simon, Soap, Worm, Roach, Meat, and some other bloke -hurried to follow the Captain, who was lighting another cigarette and beginning to jog as the cadets picked up their shit, followed.

Price took a drag, exhaling some smoke. 

It was a long fucking day, alright, and he'd only been bossing them for thirty minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grr Meat doesn't have a name in the books, so I had to go and make one up. I fact check a lot of my shit, eye color, height, hair color, accent, nationality, where they were born, allegences, what they wear, what's their talking style, slang, do they cuss, do they drink, do they smoke (probably), do they have any iconic things like how Ghost has a balaclava and how Soap has a mohawk? I hope Meat's name isn't too shit, I tried coming up with something. Same goes for others, in the future, because I like focusing my attention on the characters who don't get a lot of attention, also, I've been looking into a character called Velikan. Bitch doesn't even have a tag. He's like Nikto but doesn't talk and he's American, and I can't find shit about him and it's annoying. 
> 
> So I'm sorry to you hardcore COD fans who fact check everything like I do, because details are super important and I will not be lazy with my research and make up shit as little as possible.. 
> 
> (says this as I write a made up story with no drafts lmao)

**Author's Note:**

> Work in progress. Chapters will be posted so long as people find them interesting.


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